Outside the darkness of the long Siberian night had already fallen, lights glimmered from the narrow windows of the houses casting a beam here and there on the crisp, frozen snow. The air was cold, but invigorating like wine, the night fine, cloudless and startlit.
Not many people were about, and to their disappointment they failed to find an inn of any size. As they were walking back to the hotel, a fine sleigh passed them at a trot, and pulled up in front of a small brick building, which had an official air.
De Richleau hurried forward, and was in time to intercept the driver before he entered the building. The man, a tall fellow with high Mongolian cheekbones, was tying his reins to a wooden post.
“Will you hire me your troika?” the Duke asked at once.
The man looked up in surprise. “But no,” he said. “This troika is not for hire.”
The Duke launched into the same story again, of his sick wife and the urgent necessity of his immediate return to Sverdlovsk.
The tall man was not impressed. He shrugged his shoulders and entered the little brick building.
It was a fine troika, with three well-fed horses, the arch above the centre horse brightly painted and gay with little hanging bells; fur rugs were scattered over the interior.
De Richleau made up his mind instantly. “Jump in,” he cried, giving Simon a little push. “He may be back in a minute.”
Even as he spoke he was untying the reins, and scrambling into the driver’s seat; with one crack of the whip they were careering down the street, the sleigh bells jingling loudly.